SOPHIE OPENED THE FRONT OF Mrs. Spooner’s clock, which had fallen five minutes behind, and wound the minute hand forward carefully, as winding it backward could break it. She cranked the thirty-hour weight until it was at the top and then closed the front, grateful to have something to focus her mind on besides Ethan.
“I don’t understand why Mrs. Trenton refused to be my friend,” Mariah said as she placed her teacup on its saucer. She picked up a cucumber sandwich and took a bite.
Sophie returned to her chair and picked up her cold cup of tea. “It doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s a horrible woman.”
“She’s not horrible.”
“She is.”
“Now, now, dears,” Mrs. Spooner said. “I’m sure she does want to see you, Mariah, but seeing you reminds her of wronging you.”
“But I forgave her,” Mariah protested.
Mrs. Spooner shook her head slightly. “But has she forgiven herself?”
Sir Thomas walked in with a harrumph.
“Still gossiping, I see, like a bunch of lasses,” he said. “With no thoughts of my profession or that my painting should have been completed nearly a fortnight ago.”
Mrs. Spooner stood up. “You’re right, dear, we weren’t thinking about you at all—it was a refreshing change. Come, ladies. Let’s go finish Joan of Arc.”
Mariah and Mrs. Spooner helped Sophie back into her armor while Sir Thomas cursed their slowness from the stairs. When Mrs. Spooner announced that Sophie was decent, he growled, “About bloody time.”
Sophie tried to conceal her smile. She liked Sir Thomas, despite his being egotistical, domineering, and short-tempered. She could hardly believe the painting was almost done. She wouldn’t miss dressing up in enough metal to build a steamboat, but she would miss Sir Thomas and his wife.
“Hold still, dreadful girl!” Sir Thomas shouted.
Sophie stuck her tongue out at him and then resumed her position, holding as still as she was able for over an hour. Periodically she would glance at her sister, who was painting with a pursed look on her face. Sophie hated Mrs. Trenton even more in that moment for troubling Mariah so.
Exhaling slowly, Sophie reminded herself that she’d already determined to not let that woman take any more of her time or emotions. She had to make good to herself on that promise. But the thought that replaced it was equally traitorous: Her mind kept picturing Ethan in the park with the sunshine in his hair, and the hope and happiness she’d felt in his presence.
“Prudie!” Sir Thomas barked. “Make her stop! She’s making a mooning face.”
Mrs. Spooner stood up from the chair where she’d dozed off and walked over to Sir Thomas’s easel. She examined the canvas carefully from the very top to the very bottom. It was as if the studio itself was holding its breath, waiting for her pronouncement.
“It is complete, Sir Thomas,” Mrs. Spooner said finally. “Not another brushstroke.”
“Not another brushstroke?” Sir Thomas repeated.
Mrs. Spooner placed a hand on her husband’s thick arm. “Not a one. Now, go away, dear. Get yourself some brandy and celebrate. I’ll take care of the framing and arrange with the gallery to come collect it for the presentation.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.
“Sir Thomas, this is why you married me,” Mrs. Spooner replied. “I always know when a painting is complete. Now go, before you traumatize the young ladies any further.”
Sir Thomas left the studio with something strangely close to a smile on his face. Mrs. Spooner helped Sophie out of the suit of armor and back into her dress. Sophie looked at the pile of metal pieces on the floor. “If it weren’t metal, I would suggest we burn it to celebrate.”
Mrs. Spooner reached a hand into her voluminous apron pocket and pulled out a five-pound note, handing it to Sophie. “My dear, I think this is a much better way to celebrate.”
Taking the note, Sophie smiled. “Yes, it is.”
Mrs. Spooner walked over to Mariah, who was still steadily painting. She examined her small two-foot-by-two-foot canvas as Mariah put down her paintbrush and started to clean up.
“You are making great steps forward, Mariah,” Mrs. Spooner said. “You shouldn’t stop yet. You’re finding your rhythm.”
“Our aunt will want us,” Mariah explained. “She should be waking up from her afternoon rest very soon.”
“She only needs one of us,” Sophie said. “I’ll go.”
“But I need a model to paint.”
Mrs. Spooner smiled. “I’ll have a footman bring up a mirror, and you can paint until you can no longer hold up that brush.”
Mrs. Spooner gave them both a benign smile before leaving the room. Sophie looked intently at Mariah, who had picked her brush back up and continued to steadily stroke the red paint into flame-like curls around Sophie’s face.
“Are you all right?” Sophie asked. “Should I stay?”
Mariah shook her head. “I wanted some time to myself, and I think now is as good a time as ever.”
Sophie nodded, then opened the attic door and climbed over the short brick wall to Aunt Bentley’s house.